


Kissed by an Angel

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Sam keeps getting mysteriously kissed about once every year.  But it isn't until he meets Castiel that he realizes who's been kissing him.  Why, though, when Cas so obviously hates him?Castiel doesn't understand his fascination with Sam Winchester.  Why does he keep finding himself longing to be close to the abomination?--And why does Sam seem to want to be close right back?
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 29
Kudos: 76





	1. Have Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a bit of a retrospective of SPN, so there will be one chapter per season. (Plus one more to act as an epilogue and/or conclusion post-series).

Sam's POV:

The doctor's words echo through my brain as I traverse the bleak hospital hallways. "Maybe a month." "Maybe a month." "Maybe a month." Dean is going to die in fewer weeks than I have fingers on my right hand.

How is that possible?--How could someone so vivid, so vivacious, so full of vitality really be on the brink of nonexistence? It's unfathomable.

But the moment I enter Dean's room and see him lying there covered in wires, so pale, so despondent, I know it's true. And, what's more, I know Dean knows it, too. "Looks like you're gonna leave town without me," he comments.

Everything in me rebels. I will not leave my brother, not now, not ever. I will find a way to save him. I have to.

Somehow.

*

But how?

The doctor told me there's nothing they can do for Dean, because they "can't work miracles."

Miracles.

I mumble something to Dean about finding some coffee and make my way to the hospital chapel. Thankfully, it's empty, shadows pooling around colorless pews in the dim light. Somehow, it's peaceful, the quiet ambiance settling my stress, grief, fear.

I've never told Dean--never will tell him--but Jess and I went to church together every Sunday. It's been months since her death, but I feel her presence so strongly in this holy place that I almost expect her warm hand to slide into mine.

Of course that doesn't happen. She's gone. And Dad's missing. And I never knew my mother. And now Dean . . . .

I slam my fist onto the back of the nearest pew.

If Dean dies I will have no one left. That. Will. Not. Happen.

I lower myself into a kneeling position, take a breath, haltingly begin to speak. "I don't know if you're listening, but please. Help my brother. Dean. He doesn't deserve to die. Not . . . not now. He's done so much good in the world, saved so many people. His entire raison d'etre is saving people."

I push my hair off my forehead with one hand, rub my eyes with the other.

"He's saved me. So many times." My eyes drop from the beige cross in the front of the room to the floor. I trace a crack in the faux-wood linoleum. "I don't know where I'd be without him." The words come out in a tortured whisper.

No answer. Not so much as a falling hymnal to indicate my desperate plea was heard.

Of course not.

I blink out a few more tears, stand, brush off my jeans. As I turn to leave, my gaze drifts over a painting of an angel perched on a bench, her wings fluttering behind her. I remember that some people pray to saints or angels instead of directly to God, ask them to be intermediaries with the Almighty.

It's not like I have any pride when it comes to saving my brother.

I flip my hair off my face, square my shoulders, march determinedly over to what I realize is actually a print, not an actual painting. I glare at the lovely face of the woman the artist used as a model. "Okay. So. This is a message for the angels. If any are actually listening." I swallow. "I need you to heal my brother--I'm begging you to heal my brother. The world needs him. Please." I bite the interior of my cheek. "You can take me instead."

The lights flicker. I whirl around just in time to watch every bulb in the room shatter, while all the pews shake, the (mostly beige) stained glass cracks, the pulpit shivers. And, behind me, the picture I was fixated on crashes to the floor, breaking its simple frame.

A figure forms in front of me, flashing in and out of focus. Coiling lights reveal a vast form shrinking to fit inside this room. I squint into burning brightness, but I can't tell if the figure has a human face, if he's male or female (or neither), if the fiery circle above his head is a halo, if he's clothed in a white robe (or clothed at all). 

Something soft and slightly ticklish brushes the back of my hand. Feathers. That must mean . . . . Yes! I didn't notice the wings at first because their luminosity seemed like an aura, but now that I'm looking, they're unmistakable. I reach out in an effort to touch, but the searing heat has me recoiling. 

"Dean Winchester will be saved." The voice seems to come from all directions, seems both high and impossibly deep. A wavering finger trails down my cheek, singeing (and simultaneously healing) my skin. A pair of lips burn my mouth, whisper into its depths, "Have faith."

A blinding, ear-shattering explosion.

When I dare to uncover my eyes, I find the chapel as pristine as it was when I entered. Even the picture hangs in its spot, frame undamaged. 

Was all this a hallucination?

It's not like I've gotten enough sleep lately. And I know I've been drinking far too much.

I must have imagined it.

I ignore the sharp scent of ozone permeating the room.

*

Still, I feel hopeful when I return to my motel room. 

And when one of the many hunters I call for help informs me of a faith healer, I know I've found the answer.


	2. Counterfeit Angel

Castiel's POV:

"Angel." A snort. "Assuming you are one." Three breaths. "Looking like angels aren't real after all. I've been talking to myself all this time." A pause. Perhaps the speaker rubs his hand over his eyes. "Well. It's not like you're the first imaginary friend I've ever had." A bitter laugh. It fades slowly, echoing within the ether. A sigh. "At least praying helps me organize my thoughts." Then, very quietly, "See ya."

I actually tap my head, hoping to hear more, but that's the end of the transmission of Sam Winchester's (latest) prayer. He's been praying to me since I visited him about a year ago, but he's never sounded so hopeless. His faith has never been so shaken, not even while his brother lay dying in a hospital for the second time in a matter of months. What could have possibly happened?

Maybe it's cumulative. After all, not only did he come close to losing his brother twice, but his girlfriend died and so did his father.

Still-

A blast of clean, soothing, invigorating energy blasts through me, leaves my feathers quivering, my grace sparking.

An unusually holy man just entered heaven.

Heaven is powered by angels, but we angels derive our vitality from the souls of the humans who populate heaven. But it's been some time since I last experienced such a rush from a new arrival. Plus, there's a familiar note to the individual's essence, like his soul came into contact with . . . .

I must see him.

*

Balthazar smirks when I arrive at Father Thomas Gregory's door. "Why Cassie," he drawls in the subtle french accent he borrowed from the extensive family whose bloodlines are most suitable to his angelic possession, "I never expected to see you scurrying to visit a newcomer. Surely you must have some menial task to accomplish."

I frown. "I did not realize it was so common to investigate the personal heavens of those who have only just arrived."

"It is when the human's voltage is as stimulating as this one." Anael slinks out of the man's domain, smirks at me. She's followed by several others, all expressing similar sentiments and espousing surprise at my presence. (Zachariah merely huffs, feathers fluttering scornfully)

I am not quite the mindless drone they seem to think--I did, after all, sneak out of heaven to visit one of Azazel's children.

*

Father Gregory's door opens into a simple but ornate church, smelling of candles and incense and wood, filled with gentle, comforting vibes. This was not just his workplace, but his home. Where he felt most himself. And where-

Heaven protects the human from the pain of his more difficult memories but I can locate them.

-Where his soul remained after death. Where even as a vengeance spirit, he sought only to protect, to help, to inspire. Where he grew so certain he was fated to become an angel that he convinced himself and all who came into contact with his itinerant spirit that he was one. 

Where he attracted the attention of hunters. Specifically, the Winchesters.

That's it. That's what I sensed.

Sam communicated with his spirit, helped him find his way to the afterlife. Here. 

I delve deeper, see Sam's elation over what he thought was proof of angels (proof that I am real?), watch him push aside his disillusionment over the discovery that Father Gregory was never an angel in order to assist him.

The experience clearly left the younger Winchester doubting more than my existence (I know from his prayers that he's never been quite sure I wasn't a hallucination) but wondering if angels are purely mythological, wondering--further--if there's even a God. Hence the despair coloring his voice when he prayed to me earlier.

Sam's life is filled with so much hardship and heartache that he won't be able to function without faith, without hope.

That must not happen.

*

I find Sam leaning against a signpost outside the motel room he's sharing with Dean, sipping from a glass bottle filled with amber liquid that my senses inform me is toxic to humans in large quantities. Alcohol, my mind supplies.

Sam is among the few humans in being who can see the true form and hear the true voice of an angel without injury.

Still, I cannot manifest without causing property damage--not unless I wear a vessel--so the streetlamps blast out, car windows break, the neon vacancy sign above Sam crackles, wind swirls his hair, and--I'm pleased to note--his bottle of poison shatters.

He startles, blinks, shakes droplets of whiskey from his flannel shirt. "Seriously?" he mutters.

"Seriously," I replay.

He gapes. "You . . . you're here."

"Yes." Another bulb ruptures, rains glittering shards on and around Sam. I tone my voice down a touch. "I am here."

He reaches out to touch my wing, threads his fingers through the feathers. My grace zings in response. It feels almost . . . pleasurable? His focus remains on my plumage as he comments, "This seems real. Authentic. But so did he." He bites his lip. "How much did I drink?"

"Enough," I reply. Had he imbibed much more, he would have been unable to stand straight, to clearly see the effulgent quill he strokes.

"Hmm." His free dives into his pocket, retrieves a small cylinder, douses me with its contents. Salt. "Not a spirit," he murmurs. His eyes brighten, capturing the shimmer of my grace. "That means-" Instead of finishing his sentence, he cups my face, captures my lips.

Every swirl of my grace undulates, every feather quivers, every inch of my form gleams, shudders. It's so new, so overwhelming. I can't-

*

I fly back to heaven.

But I don't stop vibrating for fifty-seven minutes.


	3. What name?

Sam's POV:

May

I twist my neck in front of the stained motel bathroom mirror, try to see my back. A droplet of water falls from my wet hair, plops between my shoulders before sliding down my spine. Scars decorate my skin but there's no sign of the mortal wound that took me out a few days ago.--Even though I still feel sharp twinges deep within my torso.

This body knows it was dead not long ago.

Everything seems just a bit off, like a foreign film dubbed into English. (There's a reason why I prefer subtitles). The Impala roars a little too deeply. Dean pitches his laugh too high. Vegetables taste a bit sweeter, beer a touch fuller, burgers slightly bland. 

The fluorescent lamp in this bathroom glares too brightly.

I wince as I pull a shirt over my head, hiding the non-existent throbbing wound behind a layer of grey cotton. Gone but present, just like me. 

I turn around, watch my reflection sigh.

If I was dead for who knows how long--haven't gotten a straight answer from Dean--where did I go? The ghosts and demons we fight on a near daily basis provide clear proof that there's some sort of afterlife. I watched my late father escape from hell. My brother's doomed to go there. No. I clench my fists so tightly my nails break the skin. I WILL save him.

I wipe the blood off my palms with my thumbs. Anyway. The fact that I met an angel (I think, I hope) indicates that there's also a heaven. There must be. So. Where did I go?

A sudden banging on the door startles me. Dean's voice growls through the cracks. "Stop primping and get out here!--There are monsters to kill and women to meet!"

I drag on my jeans and go.

*

I'm leaning against the window of the Impala, half-asleep, using my jacket as a pillow, when "Don't Fear the Reaper" comes on the radio. Dean slams his finger on the power button, muttering that the song will never be the same for him.

Since I'm now definitely awake, I reach across the bench seat to pat his shoulder.

He brushes my hand off but shoots me a smile, which slides off his face the moment he returns his attention to the road. There's no question that the Blue Oyster Cult song reminded him that the two times he came into contact with reapers involved someone else dying so he could live.

Which he's now doing to me.

Still. I must have met a reaper after Jake stabbed me. He (or she?) must have taken me either up or down. Still more that I don't remember.

Except . . . 

A wavery image drifts into my memory. A perception of security and love while being embraced by a figure that's more light than form, who whispers words of encouragement and ensures me that this is not the end. My angel. Wherever I was, wherever I ended up, my angel came to visit me, to offer me companionship and hope.

My lips twitch upward as I doze off.

*

November

Rain thumps deafeningly down, obscuring my vision and overpowering my voice as I force my way through the ritual summoning two long-dead brothers, one of whom killed the other. (Just like I'll have done if I can't find a way to rescue Dean from his deal).

"Aziel, Castiel, Lamisniel, Rabam . . . ." As the names of warriors, protectors of humanity spill out of me, a tingling begins thrumming through my veins. I continue the spell, shouting to be heard over the raging storm, trying to ignore the increasingly frenetic pulsing in my body.

The vengeance spirit on a ghost ship murder spree appears, goes after Bela.

Dean screams, "Sammy, read faster!"

I try, but the furious rain blurs the ink on the pages the wind tries to whisk away from me, while the frantic shaking provoked by this ritual makes concentration nearly impossible.

Then.

A flash blinds me, stops my advancement. After I blink my way back to sight, I discover everything has stopped. The cemetery stands silently frozen in time: Dean and Bela statues fighting a transparent sculpture, sheets of rain pausing on their way to the muddy ground, puddles pausing in mid-slosh.

And.

Between one second and the next, he's there. My angel. All glowing wings and luminous blue eyes and lightning-bright contours. He stares unblinkingly at me for several tense moments. "You called," he eventually informs me.

"I . . . no . . . I mean . . . not deliberately?" My stammering jumble of a response comes out a question.

He glides forward, hovers before me. "You called my name," he insists.

My chest tightens. Was he one of the beings invoked at the beginning of my spell? I swallow. "I didn't know it was yours."

He turns, gestures at the grave beside me. "You sought my aid in summoning this man's spirit."

"Yes, but-"

An icy tendril of grace brushes over my mouth, quieting me. "You do not require my help."

The only reply I can think to make is a weak, "I didn't make the spell."

Did he snort? "But I can do one thing for you." He hops (teleports?) into my personal space, his grace slithering around my limbs, awakening goosebumps with every stroke. "I can warm you up and dry your book," he whisper-growls in my ear.

I shiver, wondering if he comprehends the implicit promise in the tone of his voice, the wording of his comment.

His grace swirls around me, dipping into intimate places, pulling me close enough to bring our mouths together. Heat flushes through me, sends my clothes and pages of my book crackling and steaming. "Mmm." I reach out to drag him nearer.

My hands find only air. I open my eyes (when did I close them?) in time to watch the angel dissolve into spinning pricks of light, which fade into nothing.

I only have time for a sigh of loss before the rain and screams and howling winds restart their chaotic pounding.

"Sam!" Dean shouts.

My eyes dart down to my book. The Latin incantation glares stark and clear on the page, no sign of smearing or running ink. I, too, am still, all trembles gone to wherever they originated. (Were they the result of the summoning of the ghost or my angel?)

I complete the spell.

*

Hours later, after Dean completes his enumeration of the many reasons he detests Bela and falls asleep, I slip out of bed. The book falls open to the page that received so much perusal today. I study those four names. Aziel, Castiel, Lamisniel, Rabam.

Which one did I kiss today?--Which one is my angel?


	4. In Person

Castiel's POV:

September

The Righteous Man's soul beckons me through the winding halls of hell, grants me a clear path to follow through the hoards of gnashing, biting, kicking demons.

I find Dean Winchester methodically braiding the intestines of a woman condemned to perdition for poisoning her father, her boss, two boyfriends, and her cousin. They didn't all die but she made certain that every man who hurt her suffered in return. She'll be a powerful demon someday. (It's not surprising Alastair seeks to hasten that day through excessive torture).

The human points his dripping knife at me. "Who in the eff are you?" he growls.

"Your savior." I touch his forehead to send him to sleep, then grab his shoulder to yank him from the underworld, squeezing so tightly my grace fuses with his soul, creates a mark that will remain visible when he re-inhabits his body.

*

I expected Dean Winchester to resemble his brother. Not only are they closer than most siblings, but their souls are remarkably similar: sparkling blindingly bright despite the darkness marring and tearing the edges. (Dean's from torturing, Sam's due to his demon blood infection).

But.

I quickly learn that he can neither see nor hear my true form. Any attempts at contact result only in his terror and it's swiftly clear that further trials will only harm him (blinding or deafening him) or kill him.

Good thing I've been courting a vessel.

Jimmy Novak's descent from Levi makes him ideally suited to house me. Only the archangels are reputed to have True Vessels, but I can't imagine another body ever feeling more perfectly right than this one. My grace settles into the slight form like it's always belonged there, sending every finger, every toe, every strand of black hair crackling with energy. I unfurl my wings with a thought, find my feathers quivering with the same electricity. 

(I hope Sam appreciates this form).

*

Guess I won't be learning any time soon if he likes my vessel: Sam didn't accompany his brother to summon me. Why not? I heard all of his desperate prayers, all of his fear over the possibility of a permanent separation from Dean. Shouldn't he be joyfully spending every second with his newly resurrected brother?

As I converse with Dean and mentally catalog more differences--he's smaller than Sam, shorter hair, less patience, reckless, less trusting but more open--the thought needles into me that there might be something wrong with Sam, that something might have happened to him, might have changed him, while I was distracted with the task of returning his beloved brother to him.

Maybe I'll be saving Sam next.

A well of determination boils up inside me, fuels my resolution to convince Dean place his faith in my guidance, lengthens my wingspan--never mind that this human can only see the shadow of my enhanced plumage.

*

October

There is something wrong with Sam.

My heavenly brethren informed me of his demon blood addiction, warned me that I must persuade Dean to stop him if I want to remain his angelic contact. Still, I was unprepared for the lurid red splashes staining Sam's beautiful soul. How could he have done this to himself?--And how much worse would the damage be if he was still ingesting demonic essences? 

"Hello, Sam," I greet him, even as I classify the deplorable changes within him.

He stumbles towards me, stammering and babbling, perhaps trying to find his way into asking if I'm the angel he's met four--no, from his perspective, three--times. "I – I’ve heard a lot about you," he gushes, holding out his hand.

His huge, long-fingered hand. I take it in both of mine, feel its calloused warmth. "Sam Winchester," I muse. This close, I can smell the contamination of the infernal fluid, feel the slight tremor caused by his body's longing for more pollution. "The boy with the demon blood." I can't conceal my disgust.

He deflates.

Did I hurt him?--I seek to ameliorate his feelings by encouragingly adding, "Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities," but my failure is written clearly in the despondent planes of his angular face, in the depths of his widened eyes, in the quick removal of his hand.

My fingers twitch with the urge to reclaim that hand, to pull Sam into my embrace. But we are in a race against time and I cannot pause to comfort a human, however important he might be.

Perhaps I'll get a chance later.

*

November

I sneak away from my garrison two days after Sam unleashes his demon powers to defeat Samhain, breaking his promise to Dean and us (and himself?) to stop using Azazel's gifts.

I find Sam lying on top of the covers of one of the beds in a darkened motel room, staring up at the mottled ceiling. On the bed beside his, Dean lets out a small gasp as he rolls over in his sleep. Sam stops breathing until his brother relaxes, resumes snoring. He sighs.

I drop my invisibility.

Sam is on his feet with a gun pointed at me within a handful of seconds. He blinks, recognition lightening his eyes. "Dean's asleep."

I frown. "I can see that."

He purses his lips, considers his brother's prone form. After a moment, he nods to himself, apparently having come to some decision. Grasping my arm, he swiftly and silently yanks me from the room. "I don't want Dean to wake up," he says the moment the door closes behind us. "He hasn't been getting enough sleep as it is."

"I don't him to wake, either," I agree. "I came to see you."

His eyes meet mine for a tantalizing moment, granting me the opportunity to admire the way they capture the light from the nearby Vacancy sign. "You're him, aren't you?" he whispers.

"If by that you mean the angel who visited you in the past, yes." I'm looking up approximately half a foot--I never realized before just how tall Sam is, never had a reason to.

He stares at a puddle reflecting his and Dean's car. "I wasn't sure. I mean. The name is right--one of the one's from that spell--but." He bites his lip. "You never said anything. You didn't come see me--You only visited Dean. And." He looks up at the Big Dipper constellation. "You're possessing someone." A grimace.

"Dean is my charge. I had to find a vessel so he could converse with me."

"He told me." Sam restlessly scratches his wrist.

I can hear his rapid heartbeat, see the sweat pooling on his forehead. "You're craving demon blood."

He stops scratching to clench his fists. "Don't tell Dean. He doesn't know about . . . that."

"I won't." I reach up to cup his face, provide some comfort while sending a minuscule amount of grace to soothe his symptoms. (More than that would catch the attention of my superiors. And it would be a wasted effort, since I cannot clear his veins and soul of demonic taint.)

His lips curve upward, his eyes slip shut. He covers my hand with his own.

Every inch of skin he touches tingles. Must be the effect of wearing a vessel. So also must the heat building inside me. And certainly my own form has no heart to stutter and race like Jimmy Novak's now is.

Sam grips my wrist, uses the leverage to pull me close. Before I have time to question his actions, his mouth descends to mine, and my brain clears of all coherent thoughts.


	5. Valentine

Sam's POV:

I expect Castiel to sit next to Dean at the restaurant, but instead he slides into the booth beside me. Despite the fact that I met him first, that we've exchanged four kisses, he seems so much closer to my brother than to me. There have been times when I've hoped that would change (at least to a tiny degree), such as when he fought for my life against his fellow angels, but he clearly prefers being only Dean's guardian angel or only Dean's best friend to having any kind of relationship with me.

Tendrils of warmth brush tantalizingly against every inch of my side closest to him. It almost feels like his very human body beckons to me, teases me. Of course that very human body belongs to Jimmy Novak--Is he even still in there?--and I would wonder if it's him I find so intoxicatingly appealing had I never met him. (I now understand how a person could fall in love with one identical twin and barely notice the other). Besides, I was attracted to Cas before he ever took a vessel.

Still, I can't deny my full appreciation for the vessel he chose. Huge blue eyes, dark messy hair, full lips, pretty face. I even find the trench coat he perpetually wears enticing. I want to join him under it. I want to slide my fingers under his shirt, tweak his nipples, graze around his torso until I dip my fingers beneath his waistband, caress the softness I'm certain is hiding beneath the back of that tan expanse.

Whack! Did Dean just hit me with a spoon?

I look up to find Dean, Cas, and the waitress staring at me. Oh. Guess it's time to order. "I'll just have the house salad. Ranch dressing. Thank you." I pick up the menu I never opened and hand it to the patient blonde worker.

She turns to Cas. "And you, sir? What can I get you?"

"I don't eat," he replies with his usual gruff indifference.

The waitress proves her professionalism by keeping her face entirely blank. There is, however, an extra (amused?) sparkle in her eye when she promises, "I'll have that right out for you," and spins away. I make a mental note to leave her a good tip.

"Where were you just now?" Dean smirks. "Hoping a cupid will find you your perfect little nerd soulmate?"

I carefully ignore the impulse to glance at Cas. Granted, he isn't a nerd by my definition (though he is by Dean's), and he can't be my soulmate since angels have grace instead of souls, but there's no denying my brain was leading me in a romantic direction. Not that Dean needs to know that. "This might come as a surprise to you, Dean, but not all of us have one-track minds." I roll my eyes.

His teasing grin slides off his face. "Not always," he says quietly.

I remember then, that, for the first time in over a decade, he has no interest in his Valentine's Day tradition of girl chasing. I frown, shift. The movement swirls the air around me just enough to send Castiel's scent wafting in my direction. He's always smelled intriguingly of ozone and honey, but now that odor is enhanced, with a strong metallic undertone. Could I be getting a whiff of his blood?

How? (And why?)

*

The answers to those questions prove to be of little comfort. I'm sensitive to the smell of blood because Famine the Apocalyptic Horseman has poisoned me with deadly hunger, specifically with an unbearable lust for demon blood. Lucky me.

I just have to hope he's killed before I snap.

"Sam, let's roll," Dean orders. Guess he's ready to go fight an impossibly powerful and ancient being. Why wait, I suppose.

"I can't go." Please understand.

Thankfully, he does. Also thankfully, he doesn't quibble about locking me up before he leaves.

Cas watches our exchange inscrutably, munching on the burgers his vessel craves and only interjecting to point out that distance from Famine won't help since I'm already infected. Because of course there's no hope for me.

I lean back against the sink to which I'm tethered, heave a sigh as I attempt to ignore the itching in my veins, the seductive whispers in my mind. Just one mouthful of scarlet nectar would soothe me without really harming anything. Dean and Cas wouldn't even know . . . .

I thunk my head against the cool, unyielding porcelain. The resulting pain grounds me enough that I repeat the action. Again. And again. And once more.

"Don't hurt yourself." Castiel's gravely voice sounds deep and more growly than usual. Or maybe that's just my perception since I wasn't expecting him.

I sit up straighter. "I was just . . . distracting myself." I bite my lip, clamp down on the thundering clamor begging me to find out what angel blood tastes like. "I thought you were on your way to take out Famine."

He stares down unblinkingly at me. "Dean won't notice I'm gone just yet."

I consider this. "So he didn't send you to check on me?" Cas came voluntarily?

Cas slowly, deliberately lowers himself down to one knee. "I thought I might be able to help you." He draws his angel blade.

I recoil.

His free hand darts out to brush my arm. "I will not hurt you," he declares. Then he rolls up his sleeve and drags the blade across his wrist. Pungent blood bubbles and streams, painting the pale skin of his forearm.

My breath grows shallow with want.

"I thought that since Famine is making you crave demon blood, angel blood might work as a dampener." He thrusts his bleeding wrist towards my mouth.

I pounce, yanking his arm to my lips (with my uncuffed hand) and ravenously licking and sucking the crimson liquid. The indescribable flavor blossoms on my tongue, sends heat curling through my body. I moan between slurps.

An answering sigh has me looking up at the angel kneeling beside me. His mouth hangs slightly open, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark. "I expected it to hurt," he mutters.

That's all the invitation I need to crash our lips together.

Fireworks explode between us, send burning sparks to ignite my extremities. My baggy jeans grow tight, stretching over my suddenly desperate groin. I jerk the angel into my lap, groan when his crotch rubs enticingly against mine.

I kiss over to his throat, bite and pull on the delicate skin. Castiel moves against me, gasping and murmuring a stream of what I vaguely recognize as Enochian. We rock faster, bodies sliding together in a dance all our own.

We're racing, racing, racing. I can feel the finish line zooming closer, closer, closer. There!

I slump against the pipe holding me captive.

Against me, Castiel stiffens, adds to the dampness staining my jeans. He clambers to his feet with a clumsiness I've never seen in the graceful angel. "Did-did it help?"

I open my mouth to smile dopily while sighing an elongated "Yes." But. But the itchiness rushes back to my veins, the restlessness to my limbs, the clamminess to my skin, the longing to my addicted brain. With a sad shake of my head, I mutter, "No."

Castiel bends down, brushes my lips once more. "Then I will just have to kill Famine for you."

He vanishes.


	6. Sam or Not Sam?

Castiel's POV:

I deposit Sam on the well-tended grass of Stull Cemetery and wait invisibly for him to awaken. 

His long arms and even longer legs sprawl almost gracefully between a couple of century-old tombstones; his dark hair haloes around his beautiful face as his mouth falls slightly open, air whispering out between his red lips. 

Two weeks ago, he pulled me into an alleyway, declared, "I don't think I'll ever get another chance to do this," and kissed me--no, devoured my mouth.

My lips tingle at the memory. When I close my eyes, I can almost feel the scrape of the bricks against my back, the bruising grip of Sam's fingers on my shoulders, the hardness of his groin against my stomach.

A quiet groan has my eyes snapping back open.

Sam only takes a few seconds to orient himself before he rises smoothly to his feet, eyes darting assessingly around the graveyard liked the honed warrior he is. Seeing nothing (and, thankfully, failing to sense my presence), he carefully stretches his body--legs, arms, torso, neck--in a clear self-examination. He gives a small nod after finding himself of sound health.

I healed his body thoroughly after pulling him from the Cage, so he most definitely is.

Still, it took a couple of weeks of planning before I could rescue him and, although I'm not sure how much faster time moves down there, he must have been tortured by Lucifer (and Michael?) for years, possibly decades. His psychological wounds must be severe.

And yet . . . .

He's so calm, so collected. So cold. 

His multifaceted eyes are iced over. Worse, the intriguing depths I spent long minutes gazing into stand empty.

I decide not to announce myself.

*

Sam heads straight for Dean like I expect. But he remains outside, walks away after silently observing his brother for a handful of moments.

Why?

*

The prayer bursts into my consciousness when I'm listening to Rachel's report about Raphael's forces.

"Cas," Sam intones, "Could use your help. The monsters are multiplying faster than I can kill them. And Bobby wants to go home after every hunt. I think he's getting too old for this." I can almost hear him shrug. "But you could just smite a whole bunch of them. And maybe you or your feathered friends know why it's happening." He stops, possibly waiting for a response.

I can't give him one. Of course, I know the monsters are acting up because Crowley and I are searching for Purgatory, but I can't tell Sam that. Not yet, maybe not ever.

And. And I'm afraid that if I visit him, I'll see the nothingness inside his eyes again. I fear what that could mean.

Still, I can do one thing for him: I can give him family, a hunting partner. Samuel Campbell resides in a heaven where he constantly hunts with his wife and daughter. Thanks to my increased power, it takes little more than a thought to recreate his body (conveniently very near Sam's current location) and send his soul to earth to join it.

Samuel was always big on extended family, too. Sam might get more than one partner out of this.

Since he refuses to reunite with Dean.

*

The prayers keep coming.

"Cas, did you send Grandpa Campbell to me? Thanks, I guess. Dad would have been more useful, but I'll take what I can get."

"Cas, this vampire nest is gigantic. They've changed half the town. Sure could use smiting help."

"Hey, Cas? Could use your mojo on cousin Charles. Oh. Never mind. He's dead. Still, Christian has a claw mark that needs stitches."

"Cas, do you really know nothing about why the monsters are behaving this way? I'm sure you could find out."

He only prays when he wants something from me, while never indicating any actual interest in seeing me. Worse, his words betray a horrifying (and unSamlike) disinterest in the lives of others, including his own relatives.

I've spent little time in my vessel over the past year, since my primary focus is heaven's civil war, but the fourteenth such prayer catches me during one of my clandestine meetings with the new King of Hell. Crowley's informing me that the shifter Alpha won't talk, but that he has hopes in a new method of interrogation. Or maybe a different Alpha. "One of these mooks will give us the location, I'm sure of it. Just have to be patient."

I refrain from smiting the little demon. "I don't have time to be patient! Raphael-"

Sam's voice fills my brain. "Castiel, the werewolf pack in Des Moines was only converting fertile young women, just like the one in Omaha. The packs are getting orders from somewhere. Thought you might like to know. In case you still care about the fate of humanity." The measured coolness of his tone makes me wonder how much Sam (still) cares about the fate of humanity.

Crowley raises an eyebrow at me. "Trouble in literal paradise? Don't tell me your feathered friends are deserting you."

I glare at him. "My army is fine. Now. You do your part and I'll do mine." I fly off.

*

Eventually a very different prayer flutters up to me. Dean's irreverence has me fondly smiling, wishing I had an excuse to go visit the one Winchester who is clearly, wonderfully unchanged. Really can't though, unless . . . . Oh. He knows something about a holy weapon. That might be useful.

I arrive in the hunters' hotel room just in time to hear Sam complaining (though without sounding particularly irritated) about my lack of responses to his prayers.

In person, the differences in Sam shine even more starkly, especially when he's beside his emotional brother. He's so cold I want to shiver, despite my angelic essence keeping my vessel at an even temperature. When Sam asks if I like Dean better, I search his visage for any hint that he cares about the answer, but all I find is a vague spark that might be entirely my imagination.

It's therefore not a lie when I reply "Dean and I share a more profound bond"--never mind how much I wish it was.

Dean responds with righteous anger on his brother's behalf, but Sam remains unmoved. (Although, again, I fancy I see just the tiniest hint of pain).

*

Sam slams me against the wall the moment Dean heads out to get food. "Been missing this," he mutters into my neck between biting kisses, "Never found anyone quite like you."

Was he looking? "Sam-"

A hand lands on my mouth. "Sssh," he hisses in my ear. "We only have about half an hour."

"While that's certainly true, depending on traffic, I don't-" This time I'm silenced by Sam's warm, questing lips. For a moment, I fall into the embrace, mistaking his eagerness for passion. But one glance upward reveals arctic hazel orbs.

He's interested in me solely as a means of achieving an orgasm.

I use enough of my angelic strength when I push him away to send him flying across the room.

*

When I discover his missing soul a couple months later, I feel sad, and guilty (I'm the one who brought him back incomplete), but not surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "profound bond" scene is generally considered a Destiel moment, but I've always been fascinated by the Sastiel implications of Soulless Sam feeling hurt that Cas doesn't like him as much, when he shouldn't be able to even care.


	7. Godstiel

Sam's POV:

Rusty chains ending in cruelly sharp hooks hang from the ceiling. Torture instruments adorn the walls, some of them with blood still drip, drip, dripping from their blades. More blood puddles on the floor and streams down the walls, hinting at recent crimson splashes. A barred, glassless window reveals only flames outside this chamber. The steel door creaks on its hinges when a blisteringly hot wind blasts it, curls around the cracked opening. On the other side, I hear the thump, thump, thump of advancing footsteps.

My heart speeds into a gallop as I back up, my eyes darting around vainly for an escape. There's only one person that could be. 

Lucifer.

Something sharp digs into my spine when my back hits the wall, letting me know I can move no further. I'm trapped-

"Hello, Sam." Deep gravel greets me in place of the mocking laughter I anticipated. Castiel.

I blink. Lucifer's torture dungeon washes away, replaced by the car graveyard that stretches around Bobby's house. A dangling wire from the truck behind me pokes into me. I step away, rubbing my back as I reorient myself. Right. I was attempting a run when this afternoon's vision punched me. Didn't even make it off the property. I sigh. "Hi, Castiel."

The angel (former angel?) steps into the too-bright sunlight, which gilds his dark hair, refracts the power-madness in his sapphire eyes. He tilts his head to the side. "You are injured."

I whip my hand in front of me. "I'm okay. Just a scratch." It's strange to feel so wary around the being who was my best friend and maybe more not so long ago. Except. We really haven't been close since before my dive into hell, have we? I sort through the memories of my three united personalities. Soulless me recalls being thrown across the room for an attempted kiss. (I--he?--might have deserved that). Tortured me shows me Lucifer's glee when Cas grabbed my empty body and left me--the real me--behind. Amnesia me couldn't remember either of those events right after my soul was returned to my body, but must have sensed their existence, since my reaction to Castiel's opening his arms in invitation was to sit down quickly, to reject him.

Castiel's eyes flash more silver than blue as he regards me. My body heats up for a moment, then cools, all of my aches and pains--even those of sleeplessness--fading with the warmth. "There," the angel-god says, folding his hands behind his back. "You may thank me."

"Um, thanks." I shy away from his piercing gaze, only to spot Lucifer waving to me over a Camry. I touch my head. "My wall . . . you didn't . . . ." 

He somehow manages to look down on me despite being half a foot shorter. "No. I didn't replace your wall or heal your hell-trauma. You have to earn that."

Does my Cas even still exist beneath this egomaniac? I close my eyes briefly. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Yes." He takes my hand. "I want to show you something."

*

Dean hates angelic flying. He says it messes with his internal systems and wrinkles his underwear and, besides, anywhere worth going can be driven in Baby. Then again, Dean hates any kind of flying. (One of the few soulless memories I was happy to rediscover involved a transatlantic flight with my clinging, twitching, nervously chattering brother. Absolutely hilarious.)

I find the experience electrifying.

I leave my eyes shut for a few seconds after landing, relishing the invigorating sparks zinging through my limbs, and the cool pressure of Castiel's hand still gripping mine. Also, I want to get a feel for where we are before sight prejudices my perceptions. Humid, close, noisy.

I'm not surprised to find myself in a rainforest.

Castiel lets go of my hand, paces away from me. "Thousands of years ago, this spot was a bustling metropolis, a center of culture, art, and education, but it's been forgotten by history and it's stones appropriated for other purposes." As he walks, mounds begin to push up out of the dense undergrowth, rising and spreading rapidly until they start to take the form of an ancient city.

I gasp, whirl around as buildings grow and form around me. Simple but gorgeous architecture decorated with stylized depictions of animals, some recognizable, some not. "Wow," I breathe, stretching out a finger to touch. My hand drifts right through the seemingly solid structure.

"It's just an image." When did Cas move so close?

"I can see that," I say. "It's beautiful. Thank you for showing me this."

"I can make it physical if you like." He's so near his breath stirs the air on my neck, causing the unshaven hairs beneath my chin to stand on end.

Was his innuendo accidental?--I can never tell with Cas. Still, my body reacts to his words, his proximity. I take a slow breath, clearing my head. "No," I reply eventually, "I don't think that would be a good idea." A old (looking?) city popping up out of nowhere would attract far too much attention. 

The streets, houses, and sculptures melt into the jungle, disappearing back into the vacuum of history. A small whimper of regret escapes me.

"So you did like it?" Blue eyes squint curiously.

My squealing inner nerd bursts out for just long enough to exclaim, "That was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen!"

My grin must be contagious because he actually smiles. "Here." He lifts my hand, drops a small object into my palm. 

A piece of quartz, molded into the shape of a lizard. "Is this from-" I gesture around the verdant landscape that once contained a vibrant civilization. 

"It slipped into a well when the artist stopped for a drink on the way to gift it to his intended and was lost to time." His voice paints such a vivid picture that I wonder if he was there, remember that he easily could have been.

I trace the meticulously crafted scales. "I love it," I murmur.

An arm slides around my waist, a whisper tickles my ear. "I will give you anything you desire, provided you give me your love and loyalty." A pair of soft, slightly chapped lips land on mine.

I haven't felt those lips in far too long. They're flame and I'm tinder and my entire frame ignites. I kiss back hungrily, sliding my hands under his trench coat and manhandling him backwards and a bit to the left until he collides against the nearest tree. The disturbance sends water splashing down on us, dampening Castiel's naturally messy hair, so that one black strand falls over his forehead. I take just long enough to note that he somehow looks even more beautiful wet before crashing our mouths back together.

He responds just as enthusiastically, squeezing his arms around me, fisting my shirt, wrapping one leg around mine.

I reach down to lift that leg higher, use my other hand to start pushing Castiel's coat off his shoulders. He makes a strangled sound, pressing tighter against me, raising one arm and-

Flash. I stumble, blinking away the resultant spots. Cas steadies me, hands burning into my back. My BARE back. He zapped my shirt away. Could he always do that? It doesn't matter, doesn't change the fact that Castiel obtained godlike power from consuming souls from Purgatory, and that, when he said he wanted my love and loyalty, he was asking me to worship him, not to be his boyfriend.

I disconnect myself from the god-angel, back away. "Cas, I . . . ."

Storm clouds form in his eyes. "You don't want this."

I shake my head. "Not like this. I'm sorry."

"Fine." He grabs my arm. "Enjoy your hallucinations."

*

I land back in Bobby's lot. Alone.

He deposited me here and flew off again. After reminding me that he broke the wall keeping me sane and alive and that he has no intention of fixing it.

How much of my angel remains in that mighty being?

I push my still-damp hair off my forehead, discover that my shirt is still missing. He left me half-naked. Whatever. Maybe Dean and Bobby will think I just chose to run shirtless. It's not like that's abnormal behavior. (For other people).

As I turn to walk back to the house, I notice something glinting in the weed-infested gravel. A closer examination reveals my quartz lizard. I must have dropped it during my moment of passion, and Cas must have returned it to me.

I pick it up, rub my thumb over one of the circular eyes.

I'm certain now that Cas is still there, still reachable.


	8. Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended this to be a sweet, fluffy story about kissing and falling in love, but canon got in the way. Sorry. At least this chapter ends well.

Castiel's POV:

I stare at the residual glow from the portal that swept Dean back to his world and his brother. In a few minutes, a new gate will pop up in another location, where it will shine tantalizingly for the vampires and werewolves and ghouls who have no chance of walking through it. Benny is far from the only monster to calculate the pattern and know where it can be found on any given day or hour.

I sigh, turn away.

Dean will be fine once he locates Sam. Not that he wasn't doing well, anyway.--In a strange way, the man thrived in Purgatory, honing himself into pure hunter, all instincts and fire and flawless coordination. But the prayers he hurled at me every time there was a long enough lull in the near-constant fighting were filled with fear, desperation, and an intense need to return to the man who is not merely his brother, but his best friend, his partner, his (platonic) soulmate, and even, in many ways, his son. Often, he railed at me, "Sam is all alone, you hear me? All alone. We're gone and Bobby's gone and he has no one. He could be drinking demon blood again or working himself to death or . . . or . . . . Hunting isn't safe alone, you know!"

I did know. I do know. But what Dean doesn't know is that every time he prayed to me, the string connecting his soul to Sam's pulled taut, and any prayers Sam sent into the ether flew to me along that string. Normally, the odds of two brothers praying at the same time would be astronomically small, but Sam and Dean remain in sync, even when in different dimensions, so I heard Sam's voice underneath Dean's more than half the time. "Cas," he told me once, "I don't even know if there's an afterlife for angels, if you even still exist in any form. But. I miss you. And. It helps to talk to you." A quiet intake of breath, then a whisper, "Even if I'm just talking to myself."

Dean sometimes threatened to leave without me, but I knew his sense of honor would prevent that. In fact, he would have done no less for just about anyone he happened to get stuck in Purgatory with. (Of course, if he ever heard a hint that Sam's life was in danger, he would have abandoned me immediately).

I spent the year using the voices of my two closest friends (or my best friend and my former lover?) to crawl my way back to sanity.

Syphoning Sam's madness into my own form was somehow more intimate than any of the kisses we shared, so it seems fitting that it took his words, his stories about adopting a dog and meeting a girl ("She's so unselfconsciously blunt--she kind of reminds me of you."), to heal my mind.

A rustling behind me startles me from my ruminations, reminds me that these woods are never empty. Further listening reveals eight leviathan creeping in my direction, circling around me. The preternatural creatures are drawn to me, sensing a kinship with me, since I once hosted so many of them, but they also burn with hatred for me. I deserted Dean upon our arrival here because of this, and I kept away from him for months to keep him alive. (They would have slaughtered him to hurt me and my vacationing mind would have left me unable to prevent it).

I smite one leviathan and fly away before the others surround me. 

I land near an overgrown pond, scratch the beard I've inexplicably sprouted. Angelic vessels remain static unless we choose otherwise. Gabriel played around with different hairstyles. Balthazar allowed his body hair to grow or shrivel depending on the preferences of his human companions. I've chosen to age at the same rate as Sam and Dean. But this facial growth was no choice of mine. Must be a result of the unnatural interaction of grace and Purgatory. Angels don't belong here.

More rustling. But the strange duo of a rugaru and a wendigo slinks away instead of attacking.

I almost wish they would reconsider.

I allowed Dean to catch up to me when Sam's prayers turned from cautiously hopeful to increasingly pessimistic and I knew it was time to send his brother back to him. But that means I'll never hear from either brother again.

(Maybe I should have gone with Dean? No. I deserve this).

I sink down into the tangled grass.

*

A crackle in my head. Angel radio? No. That's impossible.

Blinding lights, followed by the evisceration of every creature in a half-mile radius.

Angelic figures. Who?

A kind, but hard face, connected to a female form and an arm wielding a drill. The needle moves closer, closer, closer . . . .

Sunshine. Normal, clean, warming sunshine, falling upon verdant trees and brick houses and cracked asphalt. I'm back on earth. How? When? A taste of the air informs me it's been two months since Dean returned--assuming time moves at the same speed in Purgatory as it does here.

Two months when it felt like two days. Did I lose track of time?

A white room. A female voice speaking to me, ordering me to-

I'm walking along a road. A car zips past. The Impala! That means Sam and Dean! I must-

The same woman who wielded the drill, urgently speaking, telling me-

Sam.

White room.

Dean.

White room.

Flash, flash, flash.

Am I going mad again?

Flash. I'm in a hotel room with Sam and Dean. (For how long?) I'm conversing with them. (Still here). I think this might be real, permanent. 

*

It doesn't take me long to notice that, while Dean seeks out my company, Sam avoids being alone with me.

He's quick to volunteer to get food or drinks or do the laundry. If Dean invites me to accompany him to the nearest bar, Sam suddenly remembers that he was planning to visit the local library. If I offer to help Sam with research, he decides that he really needs to talk to the coroner. And he always nudges me to help Dean, to spend time with Dean.

Eventually, Dean notices. "Okay," he says, turning to face me in the diner booth, after Sam hurriedly insisted that he forgot to check the current location of Venus and raced off, "What's going on with you two?"

I'm saved from formulating a reply by the arrival of the waitress. She places a bacon cheeseburger in front of Dean, then squints in confusion (looking for Sam?) before sliding a grilled chicken sandwich over to me.

Dean takes an enormous bite, mumbles through his full mouth, "You guys have a fight or something?"

Did we? "Not recently."

He lightly taps the table with his fist three times. "That's it. Things are still all awkward between you because you tore down his wall, then took his insanity, then disappeared with me." He gulps some pop. "Why don't you fly that plate to him"--he waves a finger at it--"and clear the air."

*

Sam really is studying planetary alignments. I find him perched on his motel bed, back against the headboard, with his computer open on his lap. His hair--longer than I've ever seen it--curtains his face, falls past his shoulders.

When he looks up, I thrust the plate into his hands. "I brought your dinner."

He tenses. But he closes his laptop and thanks me, starts eating. After a few minutes, he sets down his half-eaten sandwich and looks at me. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you."

I sit next to him. "Okay. Why have you?"

He studies the sliver of blue sky visible through the mostly-closed curtains. "I guess I'm not really sure what we are"--he glances at me--"to each other."

I scoot closer. "We're friends," I reply, "family."

His eyes drop. He bites his lip, nods. When he speaks, his voice is low, and it feels like a chasm has sprouted between us. "It seemed like we were building something, becoming more, but then"--a sigh--"the last few years happened." He swallows, nods to himself. "I can be your friend."

Maybe the invisible chasm between us flung a boulder at my head because I suddenly understand what we're discussing. Sam wanted a relationship but the right time for one never came and now he thinks I'm not interested. He's wrong there! I fling myself across the chasm and lock our lips together.

He remains still long enough for me to wonder if I misinterpreted the situation. Then his lips start moving against mine, his arms rise to caress my shoulders, and next thing I know I'm in his lap and he's pushing off my trench coat.

I fumble with Sam's shirts, grateful that he chose to wear a flannel with snaps instead of buttons today. Soon, we're falling on the bed completely naked and I'm straddling him, keeping our lips pressed together while our hard lengths rub tantalizingly against each other. Sam pulls away from my mouth just long enough to gasp, "I want-" while rubbing my bottom to make it clear exactly what he wants.

The moment I consider that idea, I realize I hunger for it, too. I rise up, shuffle forward, seeking the best angle.

Sam stills me. "Wait. We need to prep you first."

I shake my head. "No, we don't. I'm an angel." I sink down onto him, my grace smoothing the way.

Sam stares up at me in wonder. "I didn't know angels could do that."

Instinct guides me to start moving as I breathe out a response. "We can do many things."

His intrigued laugh devolves into a moan as he begins thrusting up, conquering my interior. I meet his rhythm, bounce faster and faster until pleasure explodes within me, and my wings burst free with joy.


	9. Almost Human

Sam's POV:

I keep sneaking glances at Cas as I lead him through the Bunker. He just looks so different. It's not just the clothes, either. (Though it's bizarre to see Castiel out of his trademark blue suit and tan trench coat). The absence of his grace-given effulgence is just so stark.

Still, at least this is definitely him. The entity peering at me through eyes almost too blue to be real is very much Castiel. When I met Jimmy Novak, it immediately became clear that our angel had borrowed only the appearance of his vessel. Jimmy's voice, posture, mannerisms, and facial expressions were dramatically altered when Castiel took charge.

Cas informs me (in the sexy growl that is completely his) that he's as human as an angel can become. "Without my grace, I need food and sleep and . . . other essentials"--he looks down, flushing--"and I will grow old and eventually die of disease or injury or age."

I smirk a little. "Just like a human."

He smiles back, eyes alight. 

My breath catches at his beauty. It occurs to me that Castiel's near-humanity means that he and I could--at least theoretically--have a future together. We're not even officially dating. In fact, we're so far from being officially anything that it's been nearly a year since we had sex. I've slept with Amelia more recently than Cas and she is firmly in my past. (I've realized since that I never loved her--that I was seeking a replacement for the man (angel?) in front of me). 

Cas pauses next to a heavy door with a squiggly symbol on its sign. "What's this one?"

Right. I was showing Cas the parts of the Bunker he didn't need to see when he was fully angel. "The shower room. Wanna see?" I push the door open before waiting for an answer.

He follows me inside the spacious area, gazes around in wonderment. "There are no curtains," he finally comments.

I snort. "Yeah. Guess the Men of Letters weren't big on privacy."

He examines a fifties-era show tap that we could probably sell for hundreds or even thousands to antiques collectors. "It's lucky that there are so few of you living here. Just the two of you and Kevin."

"And you, now." I point out, perhaps a shade too eagerly.

His eyes sparkle nearly as brightly as his grace ever caused them to. They pin me in place until I'm far too warm and I can almost see the tension swirling around us. He takes a step closer to me, sending sparks of anticipation skittering over my body. I hold my breath when he opens his (lovely pink) mouth and says, "May I wash?"

What? "Oh. Yeah. Of course," I stammer. "I'll just get out of your way." I whirl around so quickly I stumble while making my way to the exit.

A hand shoots out to grab my arm, aborting my progress. "You don't have to go." Castiel's gaze is dark, his chest heaving.

I've never seen the angel so discombobulated. My blood rushes south as I turn around, slink into Castiel's personal space. "Was there something in particular you wanted?"

His huge eyes somehow grow wider. He starts (uncharacteristically) babbling. "I thought I understood desire when I was an angel, but I didn't. I couldn't. Since losing my grace, I've been inundated with reactions, with passions. I get light-headed at the sight of a woman's breasts. My throat closes up when I see a pair of long legs. My clothes feel too tight and the air feels too hot and my body feels like its waiting for something." He pauses to gulp some air.

When he doesn't immediately resume his confusing narrative, I ask carefully, "So, you realized you're straight?"

He moves forward until our chests nearly bump together and he has to bend his head way back to look into my eyes. "I realized this body has a preference for women, because Jimmy Novak was only attracted to women." He reaches up to brush his finger over my top lip. "But I am not Jimmy. He would not have been aroused by you but I react to you just as I did to April."

I frown. "April?"

"The reaper."

Red hair, pretty face, curvy figure. I would have 'reacted' to her, too.--If I hadn't met her just as she tried to kill Cas. My lips curve upward. "So you're saying you still want me?"

Instead of directly affirming this, he comments, "One of the homeless people I met said shower sex is an 'awesome experience.'" He lifts his hands into finger quotes.

I grin. Okay, then.

*

Fifteen minutes later, I have Cas pressed against the wall and I'm pounding into his tight, human, and therefore virgin hole (good thing Dean always has lube hidden amongst his shampoo and body wash) while the sizzling spray pummels our naked bodies.

He buries his face in his folded arms, pushes back against me, bites his forearm, screams into his skin.

My fingers dig bruises into the tender skin of his hips as my thrusts grow faster, until we're galloping in a furious race. Cas beats me to the finish line, emptying himself in a long stream that drips down the wall and swirls down the drain. The delicious squeeze of his body around me is enough for me to stutter and come as well.

I pull out gently, slowly, while caressing his still trembling form.

Cas turns around and collapses against the wall, breathing heavily. When I slump to the floor beside him, he kisses my shoulder. "That was incredible."

I struggle to catch my breath. "Yes. Yes, it was."

A drop of water falls from his hair, trails down his cheek. "Are human experiences always so intense?"

I slide an arm around him. "Not always. Sometimes people just have a . . . an extraordinary connection."

A smile plays around his lips. "That must be it." His fingers explore my chest, tangle in the hair I've stopped shaving off.

I grab his hand, fold it around mine. "Listen," I begin, "You're welcome to choose any of the rooms you like, but you can stay with me if you want." I bite my lip. "I would really like that." I peer at him through my curtain of soaking hair.

Our eyes lock. An eternity of possibilities stretches between us. As we simultaneously lean forward, Cas murmurs, "The reflection of the water in your eyes almost looks like grace. It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful," I whisper back, closing the last few inches between us, my eyes falling shut.

*

I open them to find myself standing fully clothed, in the library, with Cas nowhere in sight. What? How? "Hey, Dean, where's Cas?"

My brother shrugs. "I don't know, man. Weren't you just with him?"

"Yeah, but . . . ." I allow my voice to trail away. It's not like this is the first time I've inexplicably lost time. Maybe I suffered some serious brain damage from the Trials. Still, I hate not knowing how our kiss ended or what Cas and I said to each other afterwards. I hope I didn't give him the false impression that he's unwanted.

*

When Cas leaves abruptly without saying goodbye, I suspect I have my answer. He clearly no longer wants anything to do with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Gadreel was a creepy, interfering voyeur.


	10. The Knight's Brother

Castiel's POV:

I slowly push the heavy, creaky Bunker door open, descend into a building that seems emptier, quieter, more cavernous than ever. The air feels tense, almost heavy, like the museum-esque rooms are waiting for something.

But what?

Dozens of plausible scenarios chase each other across my brain. The demon cure could have killed Dean. The demon cure could have worked, leaving both Winchesters exhausted. Dean could have spit his blood into Sam's mouth, reigniting the human's demon blood addiction. Sam could have gotten close enough or careless enough to be killed by Dean's capable hands. Dean could have escaped. Sam could have determined that he simply could no longer watch Dean suffering and set his demonic brother free. Dean could . . . .

I shake away these thoughts. I need to be sharp so I can face whatever actually did occur within these underground walls.

Eventually, the rumbling echo of men's voices wafts through the halls to find me. I follow the sound, running as fast as my vessel's medium-length legs will carry me and wishing more than ever I still possessed functional wings.

I round one corner after another in the Winchesters' mazelike home, the voices growing steadily clearer.

"Do it!" Dean growls.

I race around one more curve in the lengthy hallway, fearful of what I'll find.

A horrified Sam holds a knife against his brother's throat, while a fearless and clearly still demonic Dean taunts him to use it. A hole in the wall at the level of Sam's head tells me how close he came to dying a minute or two ago. And it's all too clear that Dean will take advantage of any hesitation to once again turn the tables--and that he won't miss a second time.

The tiniest corner of Sam's gaze darts over Dean's shoulder to spot me. He drops the arm holding the knife, relief written on every square inch of his worn-out body.

I grab Dean before he has the chance to attack his brother.

*

I don't get a chance to talk to Sam until Dean passes out from the pain of his second-to-last transfusion.

He stares bleary-eyed at his brother for several moments before sighing, rubbing his eyes, slumping against the metal table holding his accoutrements. He turns to me, blinks, casts his eyes quickly over my form. "You look better." I can see the question written in his eyes.

Shame saturates me. "I . . . ." Meeting Sam's probing gaze is almost physically painful. "Crowley took Adina's grace, but . . . I accepted it." I stare at my shoes. "He killed her and gave me her grace. But. That doesn't absolve me."

Sam reaches out to rub my shoulder. "I'm not going to invalidate your feelings by telling you you did nothing wrong, even though that's what I think." He raises his eyebrows to stop me from interjecting. "But I will say that I'm glad to see you here and well."

"Not completely well." Adina's grace swirls restlessly inside me, healing my vessel and my essence, but searching, always searching for the angel it belongs inside. Its search will grow more desperate as it starts to weaken and it will lash out, attacking me instead of healing me. And when it burns away completely, it will take my life with it.

Sam gifts me a sad, understanding smile. "Let's get Dean fixed up and then we'll figure it out."

Sam and I have grown closer over the past several months. Ever since I extracted Gadreel's grace from Sam, he and I have been developing an intimate friendship. Intimate but not romantic. We turn to each other for comfort, for confidences, for advice. But not. Not what we shared in that shower a year ago.

At least it meant I could (emotionally) be there for Sam when his brother's body disappeared--and when he discovered the horrible truth of what had actually happened to Dean.

And it means I can be there for him now, be a literal shoulder for him to lean on.

*

A few hours later, I leave a freshly human (rehuman?) Dean to rest in his room.

I meet Sam near the foot of the stairs. He carries a plastic grocery bag in one hand and a bottle wrapped in brown paper in the other. Pie, candy, and chips for Dean, and some variety of strong alcohol (probably with a name that starts with 'J') for himself. He meant it when he said he planned to get drunk.

We stand awkwardly for a longer amount of time than I've learned humans are comfortable with, eyes attached. 

Eventually Sam blinks, looks away, clears his throat. "I should get this stuff to Dean." He waggles the bag of junk food.

I nod. "And I need to return to my car."

Sam steps around me. "Yes. I saw your friend. I invited her in, but she said she enjoyed watching the leaves spin in the breeze." He shakes his head, mutters something that sounds like, "Angels."

I feel a strange compulsion to grab Sam's arm and insist Hannah is nothing but a colleague. Is that entirely true, though?--She has more than once hinted at an interest in pursuing an angelic mating with me. And, certainly, had I gotten to know her a decade ago, I would have courted her. And I've occasionally thought that if Sam will be friend and brother from now on then it might be desirable to see what Hannah and I could become. So, "Yes," I say, "Hannah has a great appreciation for nature."

Sam bobs his head. "Well, I'll let you get back to her. Call me when you're next in the area." He hastens out of the room.

I ascend four steps. Sam really left in a hurry. I climb a few more. I don't know when I'll see him again. I cross the landing. Hannah isn't the one I want to mate. I open the door. Sam doesn't know that. I spin around, race back in the direction I came from.

Sam's in the hallway, a few feet from Dean's room. "Did you forget something?"

"Yes," I breathe, and kiss him.


	11. No Longer Cas

Sam's POV:

Lucifer crowds me against the wall of the Cage, cornering me until icy bars freeze my flesh. He trails one burning cold finger down my left cheek. Ignoring my flinch, he bumps his hard groin against my soft one, and leans forward to bury his face in my neck.

I shudder. But two hundred years in the Pit taught me that moving the Morningstar when he doesn't wish to move is an impossibility, so I steel my nerves and endure.

A tickle at my waistband alerts me to the wing feather creeping into my pants to tease my hole. I shudder. "No."

"No?" His cool voice sends icicles trickling down my spine. "Don't you remember the consequences for refusing me?"

I shiver. Lucifer's methods of torture were as inventive as they were sadistic. I never knew if I was facing a vivisection or an amputation or a castration. The only certainty was that the rape would be vicious and I would be left bruised and bleeding. (I once tried to explain to Cas why I prefer not to bottom and wound up running to the bathroom to throw midway through my story. He followed and told me he understood and that he was perfectly happy to be the receiver.) I glare defiantly at my tormenter. "My answer is still no."

Blue eyes glitter with anticipation. "Very well." With a snap of his fingers, my clothes disappear. I meld myself to the wall, finding the bite of its frozen bars more welcoming than the archangel before me. With a smirk and a twist of his fingers, he drills a hole into my abdomen. He takes advantage of my doubling in pain to sidle back against me and, once again, sink his face into my neck. He breathes in deeply, audibly.

A breeze (warm-feeling in this frigid room) alerts me the angel's sudden decampment. 

Lucifer crouches as far from me as possible in this small prison, his face painted with shock and outrage. "That little upstart," he growls.

Okay, I'm confused. "What are you talking about?" There's a trace of growl in my own voice.

"Castiel," the archangel grits. "He stole you."

I glare. "Okay, first, I was never yours to steal, and second, it's none of your business who I date." Is this megalomaniac delusional enough to think two hundred years of torture and rape was a romantic relationship?

He sighs, straightens up. "I'm not talking about 'dating.'" He rolls his eyes. "Castiel mated you, like he had no right to do." Lucifer's eyes flash red. He stalks towards me. "You need clothes for this conversation." He snaps his fingers, grace-dressing me in an instant.

Feeling marginally less cold in my flannel and denim, I cross my arms and glower. "What Cas and I do in my bedroom is also none of your business."

Lucifer taps his chin. "I spent one hundred and eighty-six years trying to create a mating bond with you. He's had, what, seven?" He strides to the center of the room, strikes what I recognize as his pontificating pose. "I claimed you in every way that was possible and still your scent remained your own. And then Cassandra comes along and you immediately start smelling like him. That should not have happened."

I'm still unclear about what all this means, but one thing's certain: "Maybe it has to consensual."

Lucifer swoops over to me. "So I should have courted you?" he sneers, "Gifted you with flowers and chocolates?" He flicks his wrist, shattering the bones in my left hand.

I cradle the ruined limb. "N-no." I swallow the pain and the tears that want to blossom in reaction. "I have no idea what an angelic mating is or how it's formed, but I do know I would never have wanted one with you."

*

A few weeks later, a break in hunting and Amara drama gives me the chance to research the subject. Turns out that, while angels have no procreative instincts to mate, one is occasionally so drawn to another angel (or a human, apparently) and that angel to him as to create an unbreakable bond. The Men of Letters were unclear as to the specific ceremony or methods, however.

"Useful," I mutter aloud. 

"Librarians, am I right?" Lucifer chirps, waltzing in. He's wearing a manic smile and Castiel's vessel.

I rise to my feet so quickly my chair tips over. "Did you need something?"

He glides around the table, eyes fixed on me as he completes his circuit. He ends up so close to me that I can count the individual eyelashes on that heartrendingly familiar face. One hand (sapped of all of Castiel's familiar warmth) settles on my chest.

I recoil.

Archangel strength stops me from spinning away. Lucifer rubs my shoulders, sniffs my neck. "I can feel it now, the claim on you, the connection. Now that Cassie and I share a body, I can almost imagine you're mated to me and not him." He slides one hand slowly down my back. "It's almost like you're mine."

The feeling is far from mutual. In fact, the Morningstar inspires the same fear and revulsion he always has. And yet . . . . I can sense a faint link between us, like an invisible wire strings between our chests. I'm tethered to Castiel, and my soul knows he's still inside Jimmy Novak's body, even if all I see is Lucifer. I think of Cas as my boyfriend, my partner, but the terminology springs easily to my lips when I declare, "I am Castiel's mate, not yours. Never yours."

Lucifer staggers.

Since when does the self-assured, narcissistic Morningstar react physically to a rejection? The angel slowly straightens and . . . . Oh.

Castiel stares at me through Jimmy's blue eyes. "Hello, Sam."

"Cas," I breathe.

Wonder lends a glow to his expression. "You claimed me."

I take his hand. "Sounds like you claimed me first."

His eyes drop bashfully. "I did." When he looks up, resolve steadies his visage. "I always received sufficient companionship from my garrison. I didn't realize I was lacking affection until I met you and Dean. Mateship was never even a thought for me. It isn't for most angels. But then-"

"What?" I find myself almost speaking in a whisper.

"Hannah wanted to mate with me."

"Oh." Am I just a consolation prize since his angelic girlfriend couldn't stay on earth?

"I realized I did want to mate, but not with her." He rubs his thumb across my palm. "The problem was I couldn't bond with you when I didn't possess my own grace."

I peer into his face--completely his, somehow, despite technically looking no different when Lucifer was in charge. "So when did you?"

"After you told me about Piper." He grimaces at the memory.

I smile, recalling how jealous and possessive he was--and how glad I was to promise exclusivity from then on. "Okay," I say, "But I still don't get how it happened."

He grins. "I claimed you aloud as my mate, just like you did for me just now."

I frown. "I think I would remember that."

"It was in Enochian and you were climaxing." 

My cheeks redden. "Actually, I think I do remember that."

There's a joyful beat before my angel's smile falters. "Lucifer's about to retake control. Kiss me before he does."

I cheerfully comply.


	12. Missing.  Again

Castiel's POV:

For the second time in the space of a few months, Sam is gone. Taken by a group of powerful people who wish him harm. For the second time, I have only the strength of our mating link telling me he's alive, keeping me sane.

But this time, I have no potential leads to follow in a desperate search and no Dean to help.

Because my best friend is missing too.

There is another Winchester now though . . . .

*

Mary slides into the seat across the tiny diner table. She pushes her blonde hair over her ear in a gesture I've seen from Sam thousands of times, reminding me that she's his mother, too, even though she seems to mostly resemble Dean. "I need a distraction," she announces. "Tell me a story about my sons. Something I haven't heard before." Something cheerful. She doesn't say that last phrase, but I hear it anyway.

I feel a smile start to play around my lips as I recall a trip to Las Vegas a couple years back. Sam and Dean conned frat boys out of their trust fund money, imbibed more alcohol than was strictly safe for human consumption, made jokes about who would get our hotel room and who would sleep in the car (Sam had to explain those to me), and generally spent most of the week forgetting that Dean still had the Mark, Sam was determined to find a way to remove it, and I was still surviving on borrowed grace. I laughed more during those seven days than for thousands of years I spent pre-Winchester.

Mary orders coffee and a bagel, before raising an eyebrow at me, somehow managing to make her expression both expectant and authoritative.

My hands circle my own mug. For me, the beverage no longer contains the rich flavor it possessed when I was nearly human, but it's piping hot and smells amazing. The memory from one of those Vegas nights swirls around me. The three of us sitting on high stools around a circular table, sipping beer, Dean indulging in a rare cigarette, and the two of them finishing each other's sentences as they told me about a very different Vegas vacation. "So," I begin, then stop, unsure exactly where to start.

Mary takes a sip from the mug the waitress hastened to fill for her, peers at me through the steam.

If I squint, she looks exactly like her oldest son did that night, grinning at me while smoke curled from his lungs. "Have you ever heard of the Winchester Gospels?" Do the humans call them that? "I mean, the books by Carver Edlund."

She nods. "Another hunter mentioned them once, so I started buying them whenever I came across some in a used bookstore." She pauses when the waitress slides a plate with a plain bagel in front of her. "Thank you." She slathers cream cheese on it. "The writing's not the best, but it helped to hear another perspective."

"So you know who Becky Rosen is."

"She"--Mary takes a bite--"was interested in Sam."

"That's one way of putting it." I launch into the story the brothers told me that evening, about love spells and weddings and demon deals and making a new friend. "This is really we met Garth," Dean had announced, tears sparkling in his eyes from laughing so hard. 

Mary wipes mirth from her own eyes. "Wow, that's . . . ." She shakes her head. "Sam really hasn't had very good experiences with women, has he?"

Not with women. "No."

She adds a little more cream to her coffee. "You don't seem to be much of a fan of this Becky." A sly note colors her tone.

"It isn't possible for someone under a love spell to consent. It would have been rape if she'd slept with him." My hands curl into fists. It occurs to me that I would not have found the anecdote I just shared amusing if the brothers had told it with fewer guffaws and more (justifiable) disgust.

"That's true," she muses. In a movement I recognize from Dean, she glances up at me, down at her plate, then back up to meet my eyes. Determination hardening her eyes, she pushes her plate away and folds her hands on the table. "Tell me. What exactly is your relationship with my son?"

I freeze. "How did you figure it out?" I whisper.

A grim smile. "Call it a mother's intuition."

I take a breath, let it out slowly. "Okay, yes, Sam and I are together. But we haven't told anyone, not even Dean."

She smiles. "Well, then. We'd better get him back for you. Both of them." A pause. "And then you should tell Dean."

*

Telling Dean anything at all once we're all reunited turns out not be much of an option, since he's furious with me for killing Billie the Reaper instead of allowing him or Sam or Mary to commit suicide. He pointedly joins Mary in the front seat so he won't have to sit beside me in the back (like he had been until Billie made her dramatic appearance). When we locate the Impala, he manages to say goodbye to his mother and make plans with Sam and me without ever acknowledging my existence, even when I'm standing directly in front of him. And, once we're in the Bunker, he conveniently needs to be in another room the moment I enter the one he's occupying. 

When I decide--after three days--that it's high time this pettiness ended and try to follow, Sam stops my progress with a hand to my arm. He shakes his head. "Give him time. He'll get over it."

I took up to find my mate smiling tenderly at me. "I know," I reply, "But he's had plenty of similar fights with you over the years and sometimes they drag on for weeks or even months. Dean's as much my brother as any of the angels from my garrison--more, even--and I hate having this discord with him."

Sam frames my face with his huge hands. "Dean always lashes out when he feels control slipping away from him. You know that. He'll calm down once he gets a win of some sort and then he'll apologize." Sam leans away, smirks before adding, "Though maybe not in words."

Dean's more likely to apologize by handing me a beer and never talking about our quarrel again. "Hopefully, he'll get there soon." I cover one of Sam's hands with my own. "Your mother figured out that you and I are a couple."

Sam blinks.

I continue, "I thought Dean should know, too."

"And right when you decide that he's avoiding you." A wry grin. "Don't worry. We'll tell him together once he settles down."

I stretch on tiptoe to kiss him.

*

Two weeks later:

"You and Sam are WHAT?!"


	13. In Another World

Sam's POV:

I wander into the dim woods surrounding Mom's campsite. My borrowed clothes stretch uncomfortably across my body, reminding me of the failures that led to my needing a change of garment with every step I take.

I brought Lucifer here.

I should have said no; I should have let those feral vampires kill me (again); I should have found some way to stop him.

But.

He would have found his way here anyway. And my (permanent?) death would have been in vain. Still. That logic doesn't make this feel any less like I've betrayed Dean and Cas and Jack and Mom.

Besides, I should have been stronger, more alert--should have been able to defeat those vamps. If they hadn't killed me, Lucifer wouldn't have been in a position to grant me a choice between death and his company.

I can't help wishing he'd left me dead.

*

"If this is anyone's fault, it's mine." A roughened voice quietly intrudes on my melancholy ruminations. 

In all honesty, I expected to be followed--it's so rare that my loved ones recall that my introvert self occasionally requires solitude--but not by Gabriel. I jerk away from the scraggy branch I'd dropped my head onto and face the archangel. The number of times I, personally, stabbed or trapped him dart through my mind, but I realize all animosity towards the trickster long since bled away. I no longer hate him for forcing me to watch my brother die over and over or for cowardly skipping out on the apocalypse. I feel nothing but empathy mixed with more than a little pity. "It isn't," I say. "You don't need to blame yourself."

I can almost feel the wind resistance from his wings as he glides forward. "No, Sam." He shakes his head slowly, sending his hair into a delicate ripple. "I've been selfish for too many centuries. Allow me to take responsibility for my own mistakes." He raises his right hand to the mottled bark of a nearby tree. "I should taken out my brother instead of faking my death and leaving it to you. But I love him and I just couldn't bring myself to do it."

It's not like I could ever destroy Dean, no matter how far he fell, how dark he became. "I understand."

Gabriel's trademark sparkle returns to his expression. "And you're refusing to absolve yourself. How very Winchester of you."

I shrug.

He sidles closer. "In some ways, you're so predictable, but in others-" He moves his arms in a wide circle, apparently meant to encompass all of me. "Let's just say, I never expected my baby brother would be the one to claim you." He whistles.

I bristle. "Maybe I claimed him. Or, more accurately, we claimed each other."

A laugh. "That must be it." He leans in like he's about to tell me a secret. "I thought of mating you myself. And there's no way Luci didn't at least try."

I shudder as memory after memory of rape collides in my brain.

Gabriel purses his lips thoughtfully. "I see."

I can feel my eyes flash. "No you don't. I was trapped with him for centuries. You have no idea-!" I stop abruptly when the angel freezes. "Well, maybe you do. Asmodeus did keep you prisoner for almost ten years. If you were actually in hell during that time, then it must have been . . . ?"

"A thousand years." His voice sounds hollow.

I drop my hand onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." He closes his palm over my fingers.

"Get your hand off my mate!" Castiel's voice has never sounded so menacing. (The sound makes certain parts of me very happy).

Gabriel backs away with a smirk. "Trust me, little bro, your claim is very"--he pointedly sniffs the air--"pungent. It would be a lost cause to try to take him from you."

Cas glowers. "You got that right."

The archangel inclines his head at me. "Thank you for the little confab. I'll see you around." He walks away whistling.

Cas and I are left staring at each other. I can't help noticing that his chest is heaving, his hair's a tousled mess, his eyes are wild. There's even a slight flush high on his cheekbones. Beneath the tan sleeve of his trench coat, his fists are clenched.

He's never looked sexier.

Eyes glittering angelic blue, he pushes me so forcefully against the nearest tree that the wind is knocked from my lungs. "You. Are. Mine!" he growls. "No other angel may touch you."

"I don't want anyone else," I manage to gasp before he jumps into my arms and snaps away our clothes.

After a fast and desperate rutting, we collapse against the tree, trading sweet post-coital kisses. Castiel mutters "Angels are possessive" into my ear before trailing his lips down to gnaw on my neck.

I tilt my head to give him greater access. "I noticed."

"I'm sorry for that display," he murmurs against my skin.

"I liked it," I breathe. "I love everything about you."

He pulls away just far enough to peer into my face. "And I love everything about you, Sam Winchester."

I grin. "Marry me."


	14. Conflicting Identities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice I lowered the chapter count. This is because the ending I want for Sam and Cas fits perfectly into the show's finale, so there's no longer any need for an epilogue.

Castiel's POV:

I crash through several layers of earth, creating a dust cloud twenty feet high and perfuming the air with the stench of singed grass and--sniff--grape leaves. Have I landed in wine country? A quick taste of the wind confirms that, yes, I have, but this is not Napa Valley. I'm in France, specifically Bordeaux.

That . . . that abomination, that Sam Winchester, sent me here, after insolently murdering my superior with an angel blade his foul hands had no business defiling. The angel banishment sigil thrusts us generally one or two hundred miles, not halfway across the globe. It should not have been possible for the Boy with the Demon Blood to propel me so far. He somehow enhanced his power or the sigil's power.

How?

I couldn't smell much of the demon blood reported to pollute his veins but he reeked of magic, of witchcraft. His soul was shredded and woven with lurid scarlet and deepest black.

He's just the monster Zachariah said.

I will destroy him.

*

I flinch, nearly swerving my truck off the road. What. Was. That?!

The vitriol, the hatred, the disgust. Did I just receive an incredibly disturbing vision?--Will I soon forget all of Sam's kindness, empathy, selflessness, morality and see him only as Azazel's favorite special child, as the future King of Hell, as Lucifer's true vessel? Except, wait, the individual I was in that far too vivid scenario knew only about the first two. Just like I did when I first met Sam.

Maybe I just got a glimpse into one my alternate selves. Though, thankfully, this one looked, dressed, and spoke like me. I shudder at the memory of Nazi-esque version of myself I killed in the universe that Jack accidentally opened a rift to at birth.

Still. The Sam he just encountered seemed identical to my Sam. I can tell that even through the red-hazed bias of his perception.

I suppose all Sams are alike. To one degree or another.

*

I flap my wings to return to Kansas, only to find that the banishing spell weakened my grace. Now I am certain that that little primate modified the sigil and increased it's reach with his own tainted blood.

He WILL pay.

*

HHOOOOONNNKKK!!!

I blink, spin the steering wheel in a rapid effort to remove my truck from meandering over to the wrong side of the road. Again. It happened again.

Swiftly cataloging recent spells in my head, I try to determine if any of them could have resulted in my connecting to an alternate universe where I never got to know Sam. None seems to be a plausible contender.

I pull over to the side of the road so I can think--and to prevent any more near accidents in the likely event of another vision.

Michael's from another universe. Maybe the Winchesters tried to expel him into yet another one and wound up intertwining our worlds instead?

I should call Sam.

*

"I should call Sam." Why would I think those words? I want to vivisect that arrogant hunter, not use one of those handheld human devices to contact him.

Why . . . ? Wait. That thought is attached to the image of the interior of one of those machines humans use for transportation. And. It was situated near the Kansas border. Hmm. It will be a few weeks before my grace recovers enough for me to fly further than a state (or a province), meaning that vehicle is close enough for me to hop from it to the Winchesters' location.

Is it possible? Could our linkage be strong enough?

I center myself, then slowly begin to mentally recreate the scene I briefly visited (more than once, now that I think of it). It helps that--I now realize--this other angel is a close variation of me. Same--or similar--attire, even.

I can do this. I can definitely, easily, merge with him.

*

No. That's all I can think once I pop out of the vineyards of France and back into my own body. Other Me resides in this world--somehow--and he seeks to overtake my identity.

And I'm not sure I can stop him.

*

There's the spark I was looking for. Now I just need to grasp it, to pull until he and I are one.

Here we go.

I open my eyes to find myself perched inside a still-running truck. And, yes, I'm back in the United States. Time to find the Winchesters. I close my eyes, send bits of grace in every direction to see if I can feel Sam. (And his disobedient brother).

I can't. But at the same time I can. He's warded against angels and, I suspect, in a building that is also warded against angels. But there's a part of him that contains no warding at all--a part that grows stronger every second.

I need only wait.

*

I'm trapped within a more physically powerful version of myself, and my real self fades with every unnecessary breath. Soon only he will exist. And what will then happen to my Sam?

*

Two days later:

Sam and I sit in his bedroom, he on the bed and I on the chair. We don't look at each other as we explain our experiences with the alternate time-line created by Dean's pearl wish. "Is it bad that a part of me wanted to let it stay?" he asks. "I mean, I was some kind of prick, but Dean was still hunting and if Dad was alive he would have found him and the two of them would have come after me. It would have been fine, I think. Maybe." A sigh. "Probably not."

I shake my head. "I, I mean Other Me, would have killed you. And you would have been entirely unprepared to fight him."

"I know." He fiddles with the worn blanket on his bed. "It's just . . . . Mom's great, but I haven't been able to connect with her and I've come to the realization that I never will. She's my mother by blood but nothing else. Dad, though . . . ." He swallows, looks at the ceiling. A tear beads in the corner of his left eye. "We had our differences but he was always my dad."

"I get it." I do. My own father cares no more for me than for any other insignificant angel, but I felt Chuck's love for Lucifer when the archangel shared my vessel.

Sam blinks away that errant tear. "Anyway, I'm glad you're you again. I didn't much care for that other version."

I move to sit beside him. "Neither did I."

He gifts me a quick half-smile, his dimple materializing for a second.

I can't resist leaning over to kiss him. Soft lips, ticklish stubble, blossoming heat. A moan surges up within me, ready to burst out. Except. Sam's not reciprocating. He poses woodenly beside me, mouth unmoving, hands fisted in his lap instead of caressing my back and shoulders.

I back away, tilt my head inquiringly.

"I'm sorry." Sam bites his lip. "I just keep seeing . . . him . . . and it ruins the mood."

I know the temperature in this room didn't actually just drop twenty degrees, but I find myself shivering and wrapping my trench coat tighter around my torso. "What are you saying?"

Sweet, sympathetic eyes, which I absently note are presently a lovely amber shade, lift to meet my gaze. "I just need a little while."

I'm still shaking thirty minutes after he leaves the room.


	15. In the End

Sam's POV:

I settle onto the surprisingly comfortable bench to wait for Dean to decide which of several varieties of pie he wants to sample. Hopefully, he'll bring me a slice of one that tastes more like fruit than sugar. Either way, it's refreshing to see my brother so boyishly, adorable excited.

We've had to mourn so many people lately.

A cheerful-looking young family crosses in front of me. Husband, wife, two kids. I can't stop my wistful sigh. I always thought that would be my life someday. I nearly had it with Jess and Amelia and--I bite my lip before it trembles--and Cas.

Cas, who sacrificed himself for my brother. Cas, who I foolishly broke up with over a doppelganger. Cas, who had to watch me (try to) date another. Cas, who will now never know how deeply I always loved him.

Dean jerks me out of my reverie by his joyful arrival bearing more pieces of pie than even he can eat and accuses me of being "Sad Sam."

I barely protest before sharing some of my thoughts, but I don't want to ruin what is obviously a glorious day for my companion, so I rally my spirits by giving into decades' worth of temptation and slamming a slice of cream pie in his face.

Still . . . .

Another family meanders past us, the husband carrying a pint-sized girl on his shoulders while his wife's shouts that the other two children stop running go unheeded. Strange to think that they--and all the other people happily milling around--have no conception that they were poofed from existence for over week thirteen months ago. Jack reset time to a millisecond before the mass erasure so that none of them would experience even a moment of the terror of watching their loved ones wisp into smoke. The only people who will remember are those whose friends or family were taken earlier, but they were all connected to us in one way or another. Jack said, "They deserve to know that you saved the world."

Dean hands me a slice of strawberry-rhubarb and I absentmindedly take a bite. I find myself saying, "I think the reason why I'm having such a hard time with this still is because I never got a chance to say goodbye. And things were still so awkward between us." All we did was nod coolly at each other before heading our separate ways.

Dean starts answering before he's finished chewing. "Sammy, I was there. You looked torn apart over Eileen. Think that might have played into Cas' perception?" He swallows loudly enough to startle a pair of sneaky pigeons. 

That does put a different spin on things. "Oh." And he'll never know that Eileen and I were little more than friends with benefits or that I broke up with her not long after Jack took control of creation. (She didn't seem surprised).

Dean claps my shoulder, smearing apple pie filling onto my jacket. "Yeah, oh." He licks his fingers. "Besides, Cas didn't just save my life; he gave me the exact encouragement I needed so that I wouldn't give up, so that I could help you save the world."

A tear drips off my cheek. "Jack and I couldn't have done it without you."

Dean bumps his shoulder against mine. "There's something else. Cas said he couldn't have the one thing he wanted. I think he meant a life with you."

I rub my eyes. "But you said he was happy at the end. Right? The Empty wouldn't take him unless he was?"

"He said happiness is in the being. And then . . . then he said he loves me, just like I think he would have when I was Best Man at your wedding." Dean's eyes look a bit watery as he grins at me.

"He's not the only one who feels that way," I insist. "You're the best big brother I could have asked for."

Two nights later, Dean dies, leaving me with the cold comfort of knowing that at least he knew how much I appreciated him before the end.

*

Months pass. I start to ween myself from hunting, taking more and more of an advisory role, much like Bobby did for so many years. The Bunker feels unbearably empty without any of my family members, blood or otherwise, so I start looking for a new place to call home.

And then:

I'm visiting the crude wooden cross that marks the spot where I burned Dean's body. Delicate green blades of grass (so close to the shade of my brother's eyes) sprout optimistically from the still-blackened dirt. I take off the watch I've been wearing since I removed it from Dean's arm and fiddle with the black strap. "I miss you so much," I whisper.

"You'll see him again." The speaker's voice sounds deep, gravely, and painfully familiar. But. It can't be.

I spin so quickly I nearly lose my balance. I'm nearly blinded by a light so glaringly bright that I can distinguish nothing but scorching white. Slowly details begin to emerge. A pair of vast, multi-colored wings dominate the view, rising protectively around their white-clad owner. A rapid blink and I clearly see tousled black hair, giant blue eyes, pale lips. It's really him. "Cas!" comes out in a strangled gasp.

"Hello, Sam." As the angel moves nearer, his rainbow wings fade into the blue sky and his pearly robes transform into the tan trench and navy suit he's worn as long as he's inhabited the form of Jimmy Novak. 

"I . . . Cas . . . how?" I burst out, coherency having not returned to my brain.

"Jack." He's close enough now that I can feel his response in the form of a cool breeze tickling my cheek.

"He saved you from the Empty?" My lips curve into a soft smile for the Nephilim Cas and I (and Dean) adopted. "He said he wasn't going to be hands-on, so I didn't even ask. I figured he would only bring back those Chuck poofed away."

Cas reaches for my shoulder, nodding. "He told me he can only stay hands-off if someone he trusts is running Heaven."

Heaven, where Dean now resides. (Presumably). "That means-"

"Yes." Cas smiles. "We changed Heaven into a place Dean would want to spend eternity. He can visit Bobby or John and Mary. Or just drive around for awhile." A knowing smirk lights his features.

A weight I had no idea I was carrying lifted. "Oh, good." I cover the hand still adorning my shoulder. "Thank you for coming to tell me that."

An intense stare. "That's not the only reason I'm here."

The oxygen seems to have whisked away on the wind. Why else would I find it suddenly so hard to breathe. "Why then?"

Instead of immediately answering, he leans in, scents my neck. An expression of satisfaction crosses his face. "You still smell like mate. I thought you were moving on before the Empty took me, but you never did, did you?"

I meet his gaze directly. "Never."

His whole visage illuminates. "Heaven is running smoothly enough that I don't need to be there at all times. Do you still wish to marry me?"

*

Sam Winchester, deceased felon, can't legally wed Castiel, angel of the Lord. But Sam Campbell of Lebanon, Kansas married the widower Jimmy Novak one September evening.

I twist the ring on my left hand while snuggling a lazy, sated Cas with my right arm around his naked body. "It still feels surreal," I comment, "like Lucifer's about to jump out and announce that I'm still trapped with him in the cage."

Sapphire eyes lift up to capture my attention. "There's a part of me that wonders if I'm still sleeping in the Empty."

I squeeze him, vow, "We'll keep each other grounded."

We kiss.

After a few leisurely minutes, Cas pulls away. "You wish to have children, correct?"

I nod. "Yes. We need to decide if we want to adopt from overseas or foster care or if we want to hire a surrogate. There's also-"

A deceptively strong hand covers my mouth, muffling my words. "I could have your child." He slides his palm from my lips.

I take a breath. "That's possible. But. I like the vessel you have now. And. While I love Jack, I don't think we should bring another Nephilim into the world."

"I agree."

I cock my head, confused. "So . . . ?"

He sits up. "I can decide if the child I bear will be completely human. And I do not need a female vessel to carry. My grace will create a home for any child we conceive."

I pounce, fairly devouring his lips.

I can have the life I always dreamed of, by the side of the being I love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't believe it when the writer snuck a bit of Sastiel subtext into the finale, but I knew I had to utilize it in my own finale.


End file.
